


The Komodo Dragon Ate My Gun

by Caenea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, elaborate foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Set after the events in "Skyfall", Q summons Bond to explain where his gun went, and is not impressed by his rather flimsy story about a komodo dragon...





	

**Author's Note:**

> My muse for The Founders Prophecy has temporarily abandoned me, so I retooled a Bond story I wrote some time ago. This story never appeared on my ff.net account, and was published on Tumblr originally, on an account I no longer have access to. I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> You never know, comments and kudos might bring more Bond/Q PWP...

Bond glares at Moneypenny, and she kicks back in her chair and smiles at him.

                “He did what?”

                “Sent a summons. Now don’t pout.” He glares at that, glares again - God, the man has a temper on him. Eve’s enjoying this, you can tell. Look at that smile. Practically sadistic. “You lost his gun.”

                “I lose guns on a weekly basis.”

                “Then it’s high time Q-branch summoned you. They do cost money, Bond.”

                “M making budget cuts already?” he asks, sarcastically.

                “The departments financial budget isn’t in question. How you allowed such a beautiful gun to go astray is, however, so you’d better go. He’s waiting.”

                “He’s a child.” Bond snaps the words, planting a fist squarely on Moneypenny’s desk. “Since when did Q branch send _summons?_ ”

                “Since he took it over. You’re already late.” She adds the last like it’s an invitation into bed, like it’s seduction. And he is late, I reflect, glancing at my watch. I said nine, here it is five after and no Bond. The man’s insufferable. With one final glare at Moneypenny, he swings round and leaves her office, and I watch him turn, look at a camera, and deliberately head in the opposite direction to go flirt with some agent.

                “Tut tut,” Bond,” I mutter, softly, beckoning a technician into my office. “Send a security officer to Bond, and remind him he has a summons from me to answer.” The technician looks shocked, but I wave my hand in dismissal and carry on watching the cameras. Two minutes later, a security officer approaches Bond, and I switch to sound on that camera.

                “007. Q sent me. He wanted me to remind you that you have an unanswered summons from him.” Everyone in the immediate vicinity, including that pretty blonde, look between the guard and Bond as if they’re all entirely convinced that any minute now, someone will shout “Only joking!” and whip out a birthday cake for him. Oh yes, Bond, there it is, hot anger. And oh yes- yes, he’s responding to it, just as I imagined he would. Childish intent to teach me that he isn’t summoned anywhere by anyone except M has been replaced by anger at the humiliation of a message being sent like a reminder to a forgetful junior lab technician. Oh yes, look, there he is storming along.

 

Cue Bond in three, two…

                “Have you completely lost your mind?”

                “You’re late, Bond.” Interesting to watch him react face to face - that flush rising on his cheeks is a failure to keep that very famous temper in check.

                “I don’t get summoned anywhere, unless it’s M or Her Majesty - I certainly don’t get summoned by children.”

                “You just did.” He nearly explodes - I think I just saw what it looks like when a man bursts a blood vessel. “You lost some very expensive equipment on your most recent mission. That gun was handmade, Bond, designed specifically for that mission. And I remember asking you to bring back all the equipment in one piece.”

                “It is in one piece. It just happens to be inside a Komodo dragon. You’d be very welcome, no doubt, to put your hand down its throat and find it, although by now I’d expect it’s been digested.”

                “You’re not funny, Bond.”

                “Listen, you jumped up little -”

                “Temper, Bond, temper. I’m afraid for Q branch, “it was eaten by a Komodo dragon” is the equivalent of “the dog ate my homework” - both unacceptable excuses, as both scenarios could so easily be avoided.” Ah yes, there it is - something has snapped behind his eyes, and the icy cool has very officially been snapped. He advances on me, puts his palms flat on my desk and bends over it, his face and those dazzling eyes not four inches from mine. I keep up my own control with an effort, but keep it up I do. He keeps up that temper, and he’s almost crackling with the effort not to reach out and wrap a hand around my throat, I can see it. How far, I think, how much farther does he need pushing before he actually does wrap that hand around my throat? He already seems past speaking. “Well, Bond? What have you to say for yourself?” I ask, quietly, exactly as a stern schoolmaster would scold an utterly uncontrite five year old, still muddied from the fight on the playground. Apparently he gets the same picture, because it’s enough. One of those hands shoots out and it’s around my throat, not exerting any real pressure, but enough to be able to use it to pull me out of my desk chair and up, so I’m bending now, slanted towards him. The desk separates us, but he uses that grip on my throat to hold me still while he circles towards me, much like I saw a lion stalk it’s prey on safari once. He’s that margin taller than me, but right now he looks like he towers over me. I swallow, and he must feel it, because the scowl is replaced by a dangerous smirk, one I’ve seen a thousand times on camera, the smirk he gives a conquest.

                “There are some things you need to learn, boy,” he snarls at me. “One: I am not summoned anywhere by you. Two: You do not send security guards with messages for me; I’m not one of your glorified computer geeks. And three: there are consequences.”

                “Consequences?” I say, removing his hand from my throat. “You’re the one who disobeyed a direct Quartermaster’s summons. You’re the one who was late and had to be sent for. You’re the one who has to pay the consequences for not following orders.”

 

I’m not sure which of us moves first, whether his lips come down to mine or if I go up to him. Either way, we’re kissing, and he isn’t gentle, he isn’t considerate, and he doesn’t hesitate. Those hands are in my hair and mine are busy at the front of his habitual suit, and finding the buttons, scrabbling my impatience, giving up on undoing them, seizing two handfuls of cotton and tearing, hearing buttons ping off and hit the floor, the desk, the chair. He chuckles against my lips, tears away to laugh before returning, his own hands grasping my hair and tugging gently. He pushes me until I’m against the desk, then his hands leave my hair he scoops me off my feet, dumping me onto the desk, sweeping the mess of papers and pens onto the floor, even being considerate enough to make sure he misses the computer. His hands divest me of cardigan and shirt, before diving back into my hair, tugging on the strands. I pull his shirt off his shoulders, feel his muscles flex under my hands at the same time as I feel his hands move to holding my neck, a grip that hints at the fact that he is a killer, shrieks that he has enough self-control to make a threatening gesture arousing. I busy my hands at his belt, slide my hands into his trousers, find no cotton restricting my access, and palm his cock. He grunts against my neck, and I feel his teeth bite down on my collar bone. I tilt my head back, giving him access, surrendering. He grunts approvingly and his own hands scrape over my chest and down to my trousers, fumbling with the fly. When he frees me and wraps his hand around my cock, I go hard in his hand. He laughs, a triumphant laugh and claims my lips again. The rest is a blur, until he’s turned me round, pushed insistently at my shoulders until I’m fumbling for grip on the edges of my desk, and clever hands are being very talented and fingers are questing. I gasp, I can’t help it, my hip jerk as he finds a spot inside me that makes me grunt his name. He laughs again, I hear a rustle of foil behind me, and then a warm body has fitted itself to mine, and hot lips and rough teeth on my neck are distracting me from that first initial sting of entrance. Only when his hips touch mine does he pull me up a little, pulling my torso off the desk. I turn my head to seek his lips even as the change of position makes me cy out a little. His kiss is gentle; contrasting so wonderfully with what his hips are doing, not fast but insistent and steady, seeming to reach a new place with each thrust and yet still grazing that sweet spot. The conflict is too much, my stomach is tightening, the familiar ball settling hard and hot, sizzling as it builds to implosion.

                “You’re close, man, I can feel it,” he growls in my ear, one arm tightening round my torso, holding me close, as a hand puts the gentlest of pressure on my throat. I gasp at it, my own hands going to arm around my torso, holding him there even as I fight the pressure I can feel building up. “Let go,” he orders, calmly, and for one hazy, lust-filled second, I think he means my hands. But instead, he repeats his words, his own voice husky with the same lust. As the hand on my throat descends and wraps around my cock again, I know I’m lost. I let go, feel the ball of pressure explode, and the darkness clouds my vision for a second. Only when I’m done trembling do I know he’s come too.

 

He pulls away from me only once our breathing is normal, instead of being ragged and harsh. He dresses himself with the same leisurely pace I’ve seen him kill with, nothing frantic or hurried. Just calm, almost leisurely.

                “You know,” he says, conversationally, “next time you want me to bed you over your desk, all you have to do is ask. No need for such an involved charade.” I let him get to the door before I do anything more than smile.

                “Oh no, Bond. You’re so glorious when you’re furious - and we really don’t accept ‘the komodo dragon ate it.’ as an excuse.”


End file.
